


Seven-Drink Amy

by confectionerybrick



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Coda, Confessions, Dirty Thoughts, Drunk Amy, Episode: 2x12 coda, F/M, First Kiss, POV Second Person, Tipsy Jake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:43:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3138095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confectionerybrick/pseuds/confectionerybrick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amy wakes up just as the beach house party finishes, but pours herself one last whiskey before bed. Jake wanders downstairs.</p><p>  <i>“Santiago, are you dancing by yourself to Let's Get it On?”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven-Drink Amy

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for episodes up to and including 2x12 Beach House.

There's a buzz low in your stomach and a sway in your step as you dance round the room, not caring that everyone else is in bed.

At first you don't hear him over your own voice, singing along in what you're sure is perfect pitch to the ridiculous Marvin Gaye song from Terry's iPod, plugged into the stereo. There's a trickle down your fingers as the whiskey slops over the side of the glass.

“Santiago, are you dancing by yourself to Let's Get it On?”

You turn, and Jake's standing in the kitchen doorway in a t-shirt and plaid pyjama pants. You stop for a few beats, the seventh drink in your hand catching up to you, and suddenly the situation is hilarious. “I gots them moves, yeah.”

“Well, I'm not disputing the choice of song and I'm quite frankly astounded you can slut-drop without falling over right now, but it's four a.m.,” He yawns, staggering a little himself after losing quite spectacularly at the drinking game Rosa had invented a few hours previously. “I think you should go to sleep. Again.”

It's true, you'd snoozed through most of Real Ray or Fake Ray, but a particularly loud cheer had woken you up and you'd felt a bit better after your short nap. Gina had been slipping you pints of water from then on in but you'd manage to sneak two fingers of Jack Daniels from under her nose when Holt had finally retired to bed and Rosa had busted out a pack of cards and some shot glasses.

You like the way the pants hang low on him, the way the shirt clings to his chest a little more after he came back from undercover. You clumsily grab him by the collar as the chorus kicks in.

“So? I'm just getting back into it! You're a quitter, Peralta,” you slur, indignantly. He smiles that goofy, face-splitting grin of his, hands on his hips but not quite dancing with you. You can almost taste your own heartbeat.

You've spent so long trying not to watch Jake across your desks, avoiding holding eye contact and flushing, remembering your confession at the Maple Drip Inn. For his part, he hadn't told anyone what had gone on and he hadn't even teased you about it after they reached the precinct the following afternoon.

He's watching you carefully; you remember the look in his eyes as you'd stumbled over your words then, _maybe, yes, a little._ The smooth counter top is cold, but you hop up onto it anyway and grab the whiskey. He stumbles forward, trying to take it away, but that's unacceptable, especially coming from him.

“I'm disappointed in you, Jake,” you tease, and you swear you didn't mean for that to leave your lips quite so silkily. You glug a large measure into a glass and push it into his chest, and his fingers touch yours as he takes it. “Since when do you ever hold back?”

“Did you see me holding back when Charles mixed vodka, tequila and rum in my glass, huh?”

He swallows the whiskey in one go, grimacing, and immediately covers the tumbler with his palm so you can't pour another one. Your own glass hits the marble, and your head clunks against the cabinets behind you. Everything is turning again, around and around; maybe you should have gone to bed after all.

“C'mon, I'll take you upstairs.” It's the funniest thing you've ever heard, and you laugh, apparently so loud that Jake's fingers clap around your mouth. “Shh, Santiago, you'll wake up the Captain!”

“It was good of you to invite Holt,” you say when his hand drops to your thigh. “He's... he's a good dude.... you're a good dude.”

His eyes shine at this; under the kitchen spotlights they're bright. Everything is spinning but Jake; maybe you're spinning together. Your hand trembles as it reaches for his shirt, and a warmth thrums between your thighs, his breath soft on your lips. His cheeks are flushed and his palm hasn't moved, but you're itching for it to move up your leg, into your pants. If he knew what was running through your mind he'd probably feign fainting, for all the Inexperienced Amy jokes he's made in the past, but when you look up into his face there's no joke there. You should be this forward more often, you think, as you slot your knees either side of his waist to pull yourself forward.

“Amy -”

You touch his lips with yours and he instantly pulls you in, those fingers finally sliding up your jeans and the others clutching your back. He kisses you with everything he has, your hands in his thick hair, mouths hot and fervent. You're too drunk to tell if the soft, uninhibited noises are coming from his throat or yours, but either way it's _good_.

You reach down to his waistband, sliding your fingers underneath as you press his hips into that aching place between your legs. It's almost too fast to cope with, but you've never wanted anyone more in your entire life.

He stops suddenly, breathing fast. His thumb strokes you through the denim, comforting, and he almost looks scared.

“I thought you said... you said what you felt was in the past?”

He's wearing that same look he wore back at the Maple Drip Inn, somewhere between disbelief and amazement. It completely transforms his face in your view; it's innocent in a way that his childlike grin could never be, but when his eyes narrow as he tries to deconstruct you, it turns heated.

“You're the one who said it was in the past. In the car.” Your words are breathy, and you lean forward to taste his cheek, light kisses on his stubbly jaw. “When you said about Soph-”

It's like the whole of the past few weeks barrels into you, and Sophia's image in your mind, the picture of her and Jake together, is sobering. He pulls away and stares at you, never breaking eye-contact, and whispers, “Shit.”

You take a breath. You don't know what that means.

“I'm not gonna give you an ultimatum, Jake.” Your voice wavers, but you carry on. “That's not fair. But... I'm not going to hide it anymore. We never talked about it but I'm sorry I was harsh when you came back from your assignment, and I... I made you get on with your life. Truth is, I was scared. Something like this... it's a lot bigger than I've ever dealt with in the past.”

“A lot bigger than I've ever dealt with in the past, title of your sex tape,” he blurts, and you can't help but giggle as you smack him in the shoulder. He's nervous, too.

“Drunk Amy is saying what Sober Amy had severe doubts about admitting,” you continue. “I... still like you. I want you. And when I want something, I usually go for it. I know you're with Sophia, and... I'm not trying to change that. There are things I can't control. But I don't wanna hold anything back.”

He smiles again, and it's like someone popped a cork from your windpipe.

“What young and attractive sage did you steal those wise words from?”

You can't help but to grin despite yourself; the fact that you remember the exact speech he made to you at his welcome back party is either romantic or pathetic, possibly both.

“Shut up, Jake. I was trying to apologise.”

His hair is fluffy from your grip; it looks ridiculous but you like it.

“You don't have to apologise, Ames,” he says, brown eyes flicking between your face, your hands, your knees. “I did the exact same thing to you before I went undercover, and it was worse 'cause I was leaving and I could've died, or something -”

“But you _didn't_ die.”

“Nope,” he grins up at you. “Still alive. And... I thought about you every day. And even though it's not fair to Sophia, I still think about you, I mean - especially since that night in the hotel. She's amazing and all, but she's not that special blend of overly competitive, jealous, uptight-”

“Hey!”

“- intelligent, ambitious, beautiful and completely-insane-when-drunk that I've grown so fond of.”

You've always found it so hard to form an appropriate response when taken by surprise, but luckily Jake kisses you again, softer this time. You like the way his hands frame your face as he leans in, as though he's savouring you, and keeping his gaze between kisses is just too much for you, so you deepen them. The counter is narrow and you're pushed up against the cabinet, but he slides his arms down to pull you back towards him and you can't get close enough. There's a husk of whiskey between you both, contained in soft sighs and sloppy kisses. You press against him, harder, and it's definitely him that groans this time.

“Listen, Amy -”

“No talking, you taste too good.”

That makes him laugh.

“No, c'mon,” he whispers against your lips. “We should go to sleep. In separate beds. I can't lie, I've imagined all the ways this might go down on many, many lonely nights -”

“Should I be grossed out by that?”

“- and being completely hammered in a house where our co-workers could catch us at any time was definitely not one of those scenarios. We'd make a much more attractive pair than Gina and Charles, but still.”

He's right, you realise. You want to be able to remember everything the next morning, and imagining Holt catching you in the act is probably one of the most horrific things you can imagine. It's hard to process the concept of stopping when he can't seem to tear himself away from you, but eventually you press a hand to his chest, and he helps you hop down from the counter. When your feet hit the floor it feels seismic, and he steadies you with a splayed hand on your back.

“I'm glad Seven-Drink Amy came out to play,” you say, hand on his firm shoulder. “I think we both needed her.”

“Just as long as Sober Amy doesn't throw up in the car on the way home,” he replies, and you kiss that stupid grin off his face.


End file.
